| FALLING OFF THE DOLLAR TREE |
| "So, Travis, where do you work?" (With my hand over my mouth, mumbling and pretending to wipe my nose.) "Uh, the Dollar Tree." (Gasp of awe) "Really?" No, not really. I'm just playing with your mind. "Yes, really." Here it comes... "Is everything REALLY a dollar?" I sigh. Actually, it's not. I'm part of a worldwide, ancient conspiracy with aspirations of world conquest whose sole purpose in life is to make people look like asses. "Yes, it is." "So, what is it you do there?" (Subconscious: "I work, dum-dum.") "I'm a lackey." Wa-lah, the discussion gracefully and aptly ends. I've chosen lackey over the term cashier because I feel it more appropriately describes what purpose I serve at my workplace. Though the company attempts to taint my discovery of what a pathetically compliant tool I am by forcing me at gunpoint to wear a people-friendly, mild-mannered nametag stating my role as a "customer service specialist," I'm not a small-brained child. I don't specialize in anything. I just work there. In theory, I get paid $0.000007 million per hour to press a button on a cash register, take people's money, and mutter ingeniously irritating and meaningless answers to the questions of customers and passers-by. "Do you get paid a dollar an hour?" Yes, with 401k and full benefits. "Do you get everything here for free?" Only my kicks. "Can you double-bag that for me?" No, but I can double-bag you. "Can you break my hundred?" If you buy a hundred things. "Can I get that in quarters?" Maybe. If you share. "Can I use your phone?" If I can use yours. "How late are you open?" Until now. Do you really work here?" Oh no. You caught me. My name isn't Travis, it's Dougie. You'll find the real cashier in the dumpster out back. "It must be easy to work here and make change." It must be easy to be so mindless. "Do you sell oil?" Yes. We cut a sweet deal with OPEC. "Where would I find your [insert product name]?" Hmm. (I gently stroke my chin and summon all of Captain Planet's powers merely to locate this one item.) "If you don't find it in Aisle 9, then we're all out." (Whoops, we only have eight aisles. Oh darn.) Oh, the haggard idiocy of it all. Standing for six hours in my latest Hawaiian shirt, inspecting the carpet beneath my Skechers for hidden passageways to freedom, I'm completely and disturbingly at the mercy of anyone bearing the name "Stranger" (or "Manager"). Pardon my rudeness to the one-tenth-percentage point of potential sympathizers, but people are sheep. According to my recent studies, it has been concluded that roughly 99.9% of people, in general, are absolutely stupid. Each day, after shedding my Dollar-Man costume in the telephone booth on the local street corner, I rethink through the human race, and wonder what sheep would look like if they were wool-less, spoke English, walked on their back two legs, and wore the latest trends and fashions. And it humors me. Coincidentally, I know many customers who visit my store, and this literary piece is nothing against them. However, many people, even (sadly) some I know, are of the bottom 99.9% by pure default. There have been many a time when a customer enters the store, retrieves the sought-after product from a nearby shelf, and manages to completely avoid sensibility. They will somehow stand at one of the three closed registers and mistake the "Sorry, This Register Is Closed" sign for a flashing, neon "Whee! I'm Just Kidding! This Register Is Open, So Come On Down" sign, place their items on the counter, and, after I've politely informed them that they are indeed at the wrong checkout, sigh loudly while acting as if I've inconvenienced all of civilization. Somehow, miraculously, I remain on the peak of "The Ziggurat of Sanity," amidst the baaa-like qualities of mankind. At work, I wholeheartedly murmur my greetings to customers as I dream of the perfect job: nothing. While I sincerely mean well amongst our customers, I might be tired and accidentally let my monotonous vocalizations project themselves through my glamorous smile. What makes one different than those of the doormat 99.9%? Brainwaves. On second thought, let me rephrase that: creative brainwaves of a non-sheep-like aura. Call me pessimistic if you will for my theories and approaches to life, but at least I'm loyal. To the unfortunate 99.9%: we're all in this together. Oh, and "What is a ziggurat?", you may ask. Go look it up. Stupid is as stupid does. |
| ***********Read the sequel to this, called "Lopping Down The Dollar Tree." Click here. |